


The Witching Hour

by tenyearsgone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Pre Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenyearsgone/pseuds/tenyearsgone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's absence tangles with all the rest of John and Dean's problems, and that might be how they end up between cheap motel sheets and bottles of liquor in the dead of night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

> For my first fic on AO3 it seems to have gone pretty well. I just hope John and Dean aren't too ooc. And I guess it turned out smuttier than intended.  
> Feedback is appreciated!

The first day isn’t the hardest, not really. It passes in some sort of trance; neither John nor Dean are fully coherent. The sleet-covered road flashes by, the grey skies a haze. They don’t speak. Dean doesn’t really think they could if they even wanted to. John drives for ten hours straight, stopping only to fill up the tank and take a piss. His eyes are fixed on the road and his hands grip the wheel so hard Dean’s sure it’s going to break. Eventually, he falls asleep, John’s face scowling, still contracted in rage.

He wakes up sometime later in front of some crappy motel, his father shoving him awake. Before he’s coherent, John’s already slamming the Impala’s door, duffel bag on his shoulder and face red in the glaring neon light. The guns and knives inside clink, slightly muffled. Dean finally manages to haul himself out of the car and into the freezing night, and, bag-laden, gets into the room. John’s already salting the windows, going through the same motions as on any other hunt. Occasionally, his hands shake slightly.

Because while it might have happened before that Sam wasn’t travelling with them, this is one of the very, very few occasions they have one room instead of two. The three of them had only ever shared the room when Sam – _Sammy_ , Dean thinks idly, and then stops – was too young, or _in extremis_ when there were no other rooms. _This_ – the two of them alone – just feels, well, wrong.

The air smells like your average motel, a scent he’s been used to most of his life – a combination of sweat, some sort of detergent carelessly splashed at the last minute and good, plain old mildew and general decay . They don’t speak, not a word, and Dean really, really needs to say something, because the silence clings to them the same way the shiny patina of grease clings to the furniture. Speaking still won’t do anything to banish Sam’s ghost. He might already be in California, but he’s still right there in Dean’s mind, in this crappy motel with them. If he closes his eyes, he can still see him ambling around with the awkward gait of someone who’s grown too much in too little time, fumbling with the weapons. Can still hear him moaning and bitching.

John mutters a gruff goodnight and turns the light off, waking Dean up. He stares at the opposite wall, striped with moonlight, until he finally, finally realizes his brother is gone for good.

*

The next day they drive on to No-One-Gives-A-Fuck, Idaho. It turns out to be a pretty straightforward salt and burn, and they torch the bones of some vengeful farmwife. The bitch still manages to slash at John, making a pretty deep gash on his arm. It’s bleeding profusely and by the time they reach the motel Dad’s shirt is half covered in blood. Thankfully, the parking lot is empty; it’s only the two of them in the cold night.

Dean follows the script, does everything as he always has: he dumps the bags and, reaching for a bottle, sloshes its contents over the wound. John grunts, snatches the whiskey from his hands and takes a long swig. He slips the needle in and out of the flesh slowly, trying to make the stitches as even as possible. When he’s finished he makes a tiny knot with the dental floss and takes a look at his handiwork. It seems like the stitches will stay.

His hands twitch and he needs something to do to get rid of the itch, the absence of his brother. He’d thought that maybe taking it out on some vengeful ghost would’ve fixed it, and for a few moments it actually had. There’d been no time to think, the adrenaline rush prompting his instincts, ingrained after years of training, to take over. It was only when looking for the grave that he realized that Sammy was missing. He’d half-expected him to be there, digging into the ground along with him, sweating and straining under the effort.

He’d gotten a faceful of pissed-off John instead, growling and angry he wasn’t moving the damn shovel quicker. Not that he minded – but it wasn’t Sammy.

He picks up a duffel full of guns, taking them mechanically out, dismembering them, cleaning and oiling them and putting them back together. His nose is filled with the scent of oil and he manages to take his mind off Sam for a moment, gets that pleasant sort of mental numbness that comes either from doing a precise job well or a bottle-full of alcohol.

When he’s done he looks up and John’s gone.

The bar, he thinks. He hauls his ass up and slams the door shut.

*

He wakes up later in the night to his mattress dipping, accommodating someone’s weight. He can’t see anything in the dark, and he reaches up to the knife under his pillow, ready to attack, but his arm is pinned down by a familiar callused hand. The fight leaves him all at once; he goes limp under John’s grip. He can smell the alcohol, lingering on his breath like noxious fumes. John shifts, moving fully over him, straddling his hips. His breath is rough and harsh in Dean’s ear. His hands are reaching down, moving scratchy sheets and blankets out of the way, pushing his shirt up.

Dean can’t help it, it comes out of his mouth too fast.

“Dad.”

John stills on top of him, his hands freezing somewhere on Dean’s stomach. This is  probably the most fucked-up thing he’s ever done, and he’s done a _lot_ of crazy shit in his twenty-odd years. He also happens to notice he’s hard and aching, like he needs this, needs to forget for a moment. He knows they’ll both regret this in the morning, and he really shouldn’t take advantage of John, still half-drunk, but he bucks his hips up slightly, grinding into John’s hardness. He’s back on him in a second, vicious and fast, his mouth biting and sucking everywhere. His hands roam Dean’s skin, sliding his pants and boxers down, muttering hoarse encouragement against his thighs. Dean counteracts as best as he can, pushing and shoving, trying to assert dominance. John wins every time, pushing his bucking hips down and pinning his hands as they rock against each other, grinding into each other’s flesh. It’s rough and untamed, and Dean really wouldn’t want it any other way. Which yes, is pretty fucked up.

John’s swearing and cursing hoarsely, his talk incoherent, calling out for Mary. Dean ignores it, all he needs right now is the rough buck of their hips, the slide of slick flesh on slick flesh. They’re moaning and grunting, their breath is in shambles and they’re panting like they’ve run a thousand miles. There’s nothing nice about this, no love spared between them. They’re both fucking the anger and pain out of each other, scrabbling to get a hold on the other, trying in some desperate attempt to fill the gap left by the only two people they’ve ever really cared about.

John’s breathing comes out in quick gasps, and suddenly he’s squeezing their erections together, hand vice-like. And if Dean had ever wanted to deny this ever happened, there’s no way he can forget the snap of his hips as he thrusts up into John's hand, or the small keening noises that leak unbidden from his mouth. They’re both so damn close he can’t take it anymore, and they come nearly together, John growling into his ear as wetness spreads against Dean’s stomach. It takes Dean a moment to come down from the high, and when he does John’s slumped down on him, passed out from the alcohol and his orgasm. His weight is suffocating, and the burning heat of him permeates Dean’s body. He rolls them around. Perhaps, for tonight at least, things will be all right.

When Dean wakes up the following morning, he’s covered with hickeys and his stomach is still sticky. John’s side of the bed is long cold and he’s nowhere to be seen.

A note on the table tells him to meet up later on. No mention is made of the previous night. Not that Dean was expecting anything.

*

They take to talking again, though it’s not much and almost always related to the job. What happened in Idaho is never discussed by unspoken rule, as in best Winchester tradition: don’t talk and ignore it ever happened.

Dean thinks he can live with that, at least for a while.

*

They’ve been hunting nonstop for almost two months now, never lingering a second more than necessary. Sometimes they’ll finish the job in a few hours if it’s simple enough, and then they hit the road straight away, leaving behind them a trail of charred corpses, muttered incantations and the smell of gasoline and gunpowder. They’ve come to work better together than in the past; Dean doesn’t need to have orders barked at him as much and John has learned to leave some of the decisions to his son. On a hunt, they work together like a well-oiled machine, but it still feels like there’s some kind of friction between them at any other time. It still feels like they’re missing a vital part of the Winchester team, and while they’re not exactly careening to their destruction, they aren’t all right. There’s no way they can be. Because while the edges of the wound left by Mary’s death have scarred at least, Sam’s absence is still raw and festering.

John’s obsession with Mary’s death and the creature that killed her has grown and spread like a cancer after Idaho. Every waking moment, except when hunting, is used for research. He reads for hours on end, usually staying up almost all night only to finally pass out in bed or, more often, on a book. His skin has taken on a sallow hue, the dark circles under his eyes keep expanding and he’s lost so much of the extra weight he had that his figure, his growing stubble and a sort of determined flame in his eyes almost make him look like some crazed ascetic. He pores over books like a madman, praying to Mary and consecrating his efforts with gallons upon gallons of liquor. Dean’s half afraid he’ll wake up one day to find his father wasted away, dead from alcohol poisoning or worse, gone. Because he doesn’t think he could ever stand for his very last foothold in the world to leave him and John and hunting have become his tethers to life, the only guarantees in a world that has been filled with pain for Dean almost his whole existence.

It seems to Dean that John’s trying to atone, not only for that night three days after Sam’s departure, but for everything else as well. For Mary’s death especially. Dean’s no novice to fucking up and making amends as much as he can, and he knows that this sort of thing usually ends with one of the two sides giving. And in this case, Dean suspects his father just won’t be strong enough.

*

His suspicions become real during a witch-hunt in Wichita, though his father doesn’t cave in the way he expected.

It’s past midnight when Dean stomps into the room, back from the bar where he’d been chatting up a few locals for information. John stayed at the motel to research the gruesome deaths of some twenty-odd citizens, but the computer and some newspaper clippings have been abandoned in front of him in favor of a few massive dusty tomes they picked up from an extremely disgruntled Bobby. The pages are covered in cramped writing, odd Satanical symbols and the occasional splash of what seems to be blood. John’s muttering to himself in Latin, and only looks up when Dean clicks the door shut. His eyes follow him as he moves towards the bed, taking a swig from the bottle on the bedside table and shedding a few layers of clothing. When John speaks his voice is low and dangerous, hoarse.

“Come here, Dean.”

And Dean, as always, follows orders. He stands slightly behind John, awaiting further instructions, when John stands up suddenly, nearly knocking the chair into the ground as he crowds Dean towards the wall, arms settling next to his shoulders and effectively trapping him. John just stares at him for a few seconds, perhaps already regretting his action, but Dean fists his hands in John’s shirt, tugging forwards – _this is his father_ ( _it’s just so, so sick_ , he can’t help but think right this moment) – and it’s as if John was only needing his permission, because suddenly their bodies are flush against one another and his tongue is halfway down Dean’s throat. Dean’s doing his damnednest to hold onto John as his hips are slammed into the wall and he ruts on the leg prising his apart, needing more friction through layers of cloth. John moves onto Dean’s shoulder, licking a trail down his neck and gasping for breath even as he bites into flesh. Dean’s hands are tight in his father’s hair, holding him by the nape of his neck, and he really, really wishes he could make his moans sound slightly more dignified. His shirt is hitched up and removed as his father maps his skin with callused hands, roaming over muscles. His mouth and tongue follow shortly, swirling and drawing patterns on Dean’s skin before biting down and marking.

Dean wants to contribute, wants to give John pleasure as well, but his hands are always batted away. It’s only when his jeans are being unbuttoned and pushed down to his knees that he realizes they should move to the bed, but whenever his mouth tries to form coherent words they just turn into moans as John palms him through his boxers.

“Bed” is all he manages to get out, and he’s being shoved backwards against it as he kicks off his shoes, socks and jeans. John’s hands are demanding, shoving him down on the cheap motel covers only to resume their exploration, pausing only to shed his shirt or make an attempt on the button and zipper of his pants. They’re given up as a lost cause and settle instead on the task of pushing Dean’s boxers down and tossing them halfway across the room, while the younger Winchester prises the jeans open, shoving them down. John finally shimmies out of his underwear, hips thrusting against Dean’s, rutting against him like an animal in heat. Dean’s teeth tear on John’s bottom lip in an attempt to stifle the moans and grunts of pleasure he can’t stop. John’s voice is low and rough, muttering a steady string of curses and encouragement in his ear as his hands slide over the curve of his ass, moving further down and gripping Dean’s legs as he pushes them flat against his chest.

Dean is panting crazily, his eyes dark from lust as John trails his mouth down his chest, once more biting and marking, his teeth leaving dents in his skin.

John’s mouth bypasses Dean’s erection to slide his tongue further down, making him flinch as it swirls around his opening, slowly pressing in.

This should feel so fucking wrong, he reminds himself, but Dean can’t help pushing back up against John’s tongue. All too suddenly his mouth is gone, and he’s looking at Dean plaintively, almost as if asking permission. Dean reaches up, cupping the nape of his neck.

“Need you” he whispers. His voice is a wreck, low and needy. John seems reassured, mouth trailing down Dean’s chest once more, but he goes slower this time, sucking and biting lazily. Dean’s moans come faster and harder as John probes slick fingers in him, burrowing deep and stretching him out, making him gasp as they bump into his prostate. John’s spitting into his hand all of a sudden, slicking himself up before he pushes in. The little spit he’s used is barely enough for lubrication, but Dean needs the slow, hard burn of this, the jerk of John’s hips as he pushes in again, his breath rough against his ear. Dean bucks back against him, willing him to go faster, and John just growls and speeds up his thrusts, teeth latching onto his shoulder and hand wrapping around his erection. They don’t last long after that, and when John comes this time, it’s not with Mary’s name on his lips.

*

They leave early in the morning, avoiding suspicious glances at the dark marks trailing down their necks. White clouds unfurl in the sky.

John won’t look at him straight, avoiding his gaze as much as he can. The few times their eyes meet, John looks away as fast as he can, but Dean never fails to catch a spark of something that seems to be a mix of guilt and unrepentance. Every once in a while they manage to get a few words in between.

Still a better reaction than last time, he figures.

They amble from one place to another, always in search of a hunt, scanning the obits and crashing in some of the most unlikely motels. It all goes to hell when they get a warrant in three states for severe grave desecration and fraud, but they adapt, avoiding places they might be recognized, laying low. They nearly stop hustling pool and interrupt most of the credit card frauds. Money’s getting low, and they take to sleeping in the Impala.

In the meantime, winter marches on. The view rolling outside the car windows becomes progressively barer and grayer. The leaves go first, falling in heaps. Dean idly observes children raking them up in the towns they stop in for a hunt. The cold gets more and more intense, and it snows on a hunt up in Michigan. Their breath comes out in short gasps; the cold reaches sharp needles into their lungs.

They move farther south, like birds. The weather is, thankfully, rather warmer, but that doesn’t mean it’s comfortable. Here at least they don’t really have to spend their dwindling money on motel rooms. They almost always sleep in the Impala, the same way they always have, with  John stretched out in the front and Dean in the back. It reminds him of when he and Sammy were kids, of how they’d huddle there in the back seat, strains of  Led Zep coming from the radio up front. It takes Dean a lot of time to fall asleep on nights like this, with the wind blowing outside that almost sounds like Sam whispering to him in the dead of night.

His memories of Sam snowball, mingling all into one huge block, and he spends the nights wondering what the hell he’s doing there in Stanford, if he thinks of them. If he ever thinks of the hundreds of times Dean’s called him and Sam never answered.

The cold eventually catches up to them, and while sleeping in the car gets really uncomfortable, John insists on laying low as much as they possibly can, at least for a little while longer. The police trail seems to have pretty much gone cold, but paranoia is so ingrained in him he doesn’t want to take risks.

It’s a cold night somewhere in December – or January already, Dean’s lost track of time – and they’re shivering under their respective covers in the Impala. The windshield and windows are misted over even with the little heat their bodies have, and ice is starting to form on the outside. The night is dark and moonless, and Dean thinks it must be somewhere around one or two o’clock.

He represses yet another shiver, exhaling shakily over his hands. There’s a sudden rustling in the front.

“Fuck it all.” Comes John’s curse, and suddenly he’s ripped the covers off and is out in the night.

Dean has no idea what the hell his father’s doing and he panics, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. His pulse echoes in his ears.

“Dad?” he calls out experimentally. His limbs won’t seem to move, they feel too frozen.

Thankfully the back seat door opens suddenly, and John is shoving him aside, making room for himself as well. He throws his covers over Dean’s and holds onto his waist with an arm, partly to keep him from falling onto the floor of the car and partly to bring him closer, warm him up.

Dean knows he probably shouldn’t, but the words come out of his mouth faster than he intended them to.

“How d’you think Sam is?”

John doesn’t answer. He just moves his face to nuzzle in the crook between Dean’s neck and shoulder, breathing in harshly.

They fall asleep like that.

*

With February coming around, they hunt a werewolf in Seattle and John deems their trail gone cold enough for them to start hustling pool and running credit card frauds again. However much Dean loves the Impala, even he is grateful for the lumpy mattresses and cheap sheets of the crappy motels they stay in. The heating is an added bonus as well.

He slips back into badly illuminated bars easily, casually tricking people out of their money. Deep down, he’s never been too happy with swindling people, but he does what he has to and doesn’t think of it afterwards. It isn’t as if he hasn’t saved enough lives already.

It’s on a night such as this, with a wad of cash stuck into his pocket and the taste of whiskey heavy on his tongue, that he stumbles back into the motel. Outside, the moon slips behind thick gray clouds. He shrugs out of his clothes, dropping them onto a chair. The room is dark, but Dean has always moved easily even without light. He reaches for the bottle of jack on the bedside table, savors the burn of alcohol down his throat, the sour aftertaste.

By the look of the room, he’s not the only one on a bender. There are bottles everywhere, small piles of ashes and the smell of cigarettes– a sure sign dad isn’t coping well. He’s only ever smoked when very troubled.

He’s not the only one worried, either. The hunt doesn’t trouble him particularly, it’s probably an average salt’n’burn. His father’s obsession for the creature that killed Mary hasn’t abated in the past months; admittedly, his father isn’t dealing as bad with it as he was shortly after Sam left for Stanford, but he’s not alright, either. And it hurts him to think his father might break someday, after all he’s done for Sam and Dean when they were younger, trying to keep the family together. And okay, he might not have been a model parent, but he’s still Dean’s father.

Sammy, of course, is still gone, and they never talk about him. He still lingers, a shadow moving between them, but Dean thinks of him less and less, doesn’t call as much. Not like that ever got anywhere.

He still misses him like hell though, misses the warmth of him, misses even his annoying bitchface. Misses his affection. It wasn’t as if John hadn’t loved them, but he and Sammy had always been so close. Without him to take care of, Dean just isn’t really sure what to do anymore.

He doesn’t really think about it – just moves towards John’s bed, taking most of his clothes off on the way and slipping under the sheets. Cheap fabric drags over his skin, rough and musty-smelling.

John might not be anywhere near sober, but he wakes up, immobilizing Dean’s hands easily.

“’S just me, dad.”

His grip slackens a little, but he doesn’t let go of his wrists. Dean ignores the hands gripping him, leans forward, till the breaths are mingling.

John’s voice comes out sandpaper-rough, liquor and cigarettes lingering on his breath. “Just what the hell are you doing, son?”

He slips his wrist free, getting closer, whispers “Let me” against his lips. John’s breath hitches for a moment, doesn’t resist when their lips meet. Their tongues swirl lazily together, feel the effect of the alcohol wearing off as arousal grows. John’s hands move downwards over Dean’s body, cupping his ass, pressing him closer and making him moan into his mouth.

Dean’s hands scrabble at the little clothing John wears to bed, desperate to feel him fully. John just growls, shoving his hands off and divesting himself of t-shirt and shorts. Once more they’re rutting against each other in the dead of night, clawing and biting at one another like animals trying to slake their lust.

John pushes against him in an attempt to roll him on his back, but for once Dean resists. This time all he wants is to make it good for him, wants to make John as aching and desperate for this as he is. His mouth wanders downward, licking and biting, making John moan as he realizes what his destination is. His erection is heavy on Dean’s tongue, the taste tangy and not too terrible. The weight and heat of John in his mouth are almost too much to be pleasant, his mouth stretched uncomfortably around his girth in a way he isn’t used to at all. He does what he can though, puts his best effort into it. Judging by John’s reaction, he isn’t doing bad at all, he thinks as a hand settles on his head, pushing him closer, grasping uselessly at short hair.

“Stop, Dean.” But Dean keeps on going, until John’s tugging his mouth off him all too suddenly, breath coming in quick pants. Once more, he tries to flip Dean onto his back, but he resists again, straddling John’s hips. This time he’s prepared, a bottle of lube on the bedside table. He likes it rough, but sitting for hours in the Impala with a burn in his ass just won’t do this time.

He slicks himself up quickly, avoiding John’s hands that meander on his skin, calloused and demanding. John’s lifting himself up all of a sudden, until their chests are flush together, fingers digging greedily into Dean’s sides hard enough to leave marks. Dean lifts his hips up, and then John’s pressing into him, deep down until he’s in balls deep. They still for a moment, harsh breaths the only noises in the otherwise quiet room. He steadies himself against John’s shoulders, using them as leverage to push himself up. This is almost too intimate, too personal for them; with each thrust John’s settled deeper and deeper into Dean, cock brushing against his prostate.

His hands have strayed downwards to Dean’s hips, lifting him up each time, biting hard into flesh. Their moans and grunts of pleasure steadily increase, and if Dean wasn’t too busy riding John like his life depends on it he’d be worrying about how much they sound like bad porno. They’re both close, but Dean comes first, muffling a groan by biting into his father’s neck. His orgasm leaves him drained and exhausted, but John keeps on going, lifting his hips up with more urgency than before, slamming uncomfortably against his over sensitized prostate each time. Curses and grunts slip from his lips, cut off only by a low moan as he comes. It takes them several moments to come down from the high, and by then John’s limp cock has slipped out of him and they’ve collapsed on top of one another, too tired to move.

*

After that, they fuck almost nightly, find solace in each other’s body during a hunt. It isn’t unusual for either of them to wake up during the night to hands reaching, clinging to the other’s body in search of comfort and warmth. It always happens at night, when the rest of respectable small-town America is fast asleep in their white-picket fence homes. Perhaps it’s because in the dark it’s easier for John to hide his shame, easier to overstep his self-imposed boundaries. It’s not nearly as hard for Dean, who’s always substituted his father’s face to the ones of superheroes in comic books and whose goal in life was to become as strong as his Dad one day. It’s not as if he doesn’t know that it’s wrong, but he still hopes that maybe one day he won’t have to be John’s dirty little secret.

It isn’t until they’re driving to a hunt in Arizona that things change. John pulls over and proceeds to fuck Dean on the Impala’s seat in plain daylight, uncaring of possible stains on the upholstery. The morning after the hunt, John’s packing up his bags. Dean can’t help but notice that his weapons are still on the table where he left them last night.

John looks uncomfortable at first, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He looks as if he’s unsure of what to say, but when he speaks the indecision has left his face and his eyes are dark and determined.

“It’s high time you started hunting on your own, son. Can’t always have me at your back.” Dean notices his father’s eyes avoid him, looking anywhere else, and for the first time in his life he objects to a direct order.

“But –”

“No buts, Dean.” His father interrupts. “This has gone on for far too long.” He’s at the door when he looks over his shoulder, and for a moment Dean hopes he’ll turn back.

But John just stalks out the door and Dean’s left saying a ‘Yes, sir’ to an empty room.

*

The next month or so passes slowly, too slowly for Dean. One hunt blends into another, and they all end with him in his motel room, drowning sadness in alcohol. Not a word from Sam – but that was completely predictable – or John. He’s not sure which of the two hurts the most.

Dean wanders across the country without purpose, falling apart at the seams. All he’s ever had has left him, and he goes from one hunt to the next with only the hope that next time he might meet John again. Which is pretty pathetic, really.

He’s covered in blood and gore after beheading a vampire somewhere in Nebraska when his phone rings. The noise startles him, brings him down from the adrenaline high as he scrabbles to get a hold of it with sticky fingers. The voice in his ear is rough and so familiar yet unexpected Dean suspects he’s imagining it all.

“Dean. Where the hell are you?”

Dean mutters the name of the town and motel before the line goes dead on the other side.

That night, Dean has a hard time not hoping. 

*

John shows up the next morning in a black truck. Dean’s almost tempted to make some stupid comment about it, but ends up rushing into his father’s arms instead. And yeah, it’s pretty corny as far as reunions go, but Dean doesn’t want to be anywhere else right now.

John’s hands move up to cup his face, and Dean’s all too aware of being shoved up against the truck and of a leg between his. John’s needy and frantic, breathlessly begging for forgiveness as he sucks his way down Dean’s throat.

“Needed you, so bad. Missed you like hell…tried to stay away, but I just can’t.”

Dean doesn’t know what to answer, just  presses their lips back together and drags him into the motel room.

*

They still keep on working their own hunts, occasionally tackling one together, and meet up as often as they can. Each time is more frantic than the last, hands and mouths everywhere, relearning the dips and curves of flesh on the other’s body. Dean gets an illicit thrill from their meetings that has nothing to do with the fact that they’re father and son and that feels more like they’re betraying the trust of Mary and Sammy, almost as if they’re adulterous. Not that this stops him, instead, it just spurs him on. It’s at times such as these when Dean’s on a lumpy motel bed, ass in the air and legs spread as he begs for more and John complies, always complies to Dean’s needs. It’s at times such as these that he tells him that yes, there were others in that month they were apart, but all of them became John in bed. His thrusts always come harder and faster after that, he comes more quickly. Dean can’t help but feel a spark of pride at this; he’s the only one who can make Dad lose control so completely.

They’re in Texas this time, and John’s taking it slow, too slow for Dean, whose hands are pinned above his head. His mouth is insistent and demanding, and there’s a sort of quiet desperation in his eyes that almost troubles Dean.

The sex is gentler than any other time they’ve been together, and Dean can’t help but think this probably counts as making love when John pushes his way in gently, seating himself fully and waiting before pulling back, mouth clasping onto his neck. Dean’s legs are wrapped around John, in a desperate attempt to make him go faster, go deeper, but John keeps his slow, steady pace, rolling his hips forward almost lazily. For a moment Dean wonders if this was how John used to make love to his mother, then reaches up to press their lips together and banishes the thought.

John’s tongue wraps around his own, moving in tandem with his thrusts and making Dean groan in his mouth as he grips his length. Perhaps it’s the way John speeds up, pressing against his prostate every time, perhaps it’s the way Dean’s name slips from his mouth reverently like a mantra, but either way he’s suddenly coming hard, back arching up as he convulses around John. He manages a few more thrusts before coming too, whispering Dean’s name against his lips.

*

He wakes up to a cold bed, but it isn’t unusual for John to leave early. They were taking separate hunts, after all. Dean checks his hoodoo charms and rolls towards Louisiana, the rumble of the Impala a comforting sound.

He doesn’t hear from John the next few days. Dean tries not to let that worry him too much. He tries.

Two weeks and hundreds of unanswered calls later, Dean takes the only viable option and drives to California.

*

He watches the play of shadows over his brother’s face, takes in all the ways Sammy’s grown and changed. Notices how stupid his hair looks now and tries not to think of how much he’s missed him, tries to ignore that this feels almost like coming home.

“Dad’s on a hunting trip and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”


End file.
